The Last Shred
by TheJabuticaba
Summary: Of dignity, that is. It's Halloween at Teufort, and dignity is non-existent, even more so for the Support. In their defence, there's a monster on the loose. And it's raining. And there's a blackout. T for language.
1. You Are What You Eat

_**Yo, everyone. This fic was conceived when I read TF2's latest comic issue, Blood In The Water, in which **_!SPOILER!ALERT!_** Sniper is revealed to be a New Zealander. It's my first attempt at writing a TF2 fanfic, so, feel free to criticise, but please, please be nice.**_

_**Also, this is supposed to be a Halloween-themed fic, but not supposed to be too creepy. I can't write horror (not well, anyway).**_

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><p><strong>1 You Are What You Eat<strong>

Somewhere in the desert area of Teufort, there were two buildings. One was red, and the other was blue.

The red building slept peacefully, not unlike a log. The blue building, however, was sleeping like a dreaming dog – twitching every so often to show that the building wasn't as calm as it looked in the exterior. But more of the red building later.

Deep inside the light blue building, there was an infirmary.

Inside the infirmary, there was a certain bespectacled man.

Inside the bespectacled man, there was…

Well, blood, for one. And organs. And arteries. And veins. And billions of other things that would take a gazillion years to list.

But to get back to the point, inside this bespectacled man, not counting the physical stuff, was an idea. A thought, a spark of inspiration, an epiphany; whichever floated one's boat.

And it was with this thought in mind that the BLU Medic strapped down a sedated loaf of normal bread – he had sedated the innocent-looking thing because all the BLUs had seen what had happened to the REDs and their base, and he was _not_ about to take any chances – and pulled out his syringes.

A Medic had a very important responsibility to his team. A Medic had to ensure that the team was in the best of health, both physically and mentally speaking. A Medic had to make sure that the team was protected from any threats, even trivial ones like the flu.

Or, in this case, _this_ particular Medic had to make sure that they didn't wake up one morning to find that their bread had turned the tables on them, and had decided that the mercenaries' toes were something nice to nibble on. Perhaps it was for the breads' sake as well – the BLU Medic would bet his none-existent medical license that the Scout never washed his feet.

No-one – _nothing_, really – deserved to die from ingesting human poisons created from lack of hygiene.

The BLU Medic eyed his array of syringes, trying to pick one out. Then, he remembered that he kept his experimental serums on the cabinet, and even as he moved to get them, something else caught his attention.

_Scritch. Scritch._

The BLU froze. Then, he turned slowly on the spot, and towards where the sound had come from.

_Scritch. Scritch._

The BLU Medic was not an easily frightened man – after all, he had to put up with horrendous amounts of blood and guts on a daily basis, not to mention face being killed and Respawned, also on a daily basis. But something told him, a gut feeling perhaps, that there was something wrong with his fridge.

_Scritch. Scritch._

Something scratched at the inside of the fridge again.

Swallowing nervously, the BLU Medic looked for a weapon that he could use to bludgeon whatever monstrosity had taken up residence inside the fridge. His hands automatically fell upon his Medi-Gun, and he nearly let out a hysterical laugh.

_Ah, well,_ he reasoned as he edged towards the fridge, Medi-Gun at the ready, _at least I'll be able to heal myself if it is dangerous._

Just as the BLU Medic's hand hovered over the fridge door, the door opened of its own accord. Perhaps 'opened' wasn't the correct description. 'Flew off' were probably the more accurate words.

Letting out an unmanly yelp, the Medi-Gun was switched on and over healed the BLU Medic, only to be turned off a second later in annoyance.

"What." The BLU Medic demanded. "Do you. Think. You're doing."

"I am eating your sandwiches, Maggot!" the BLU Soldier roared, somehow fitting inside the small fridge. "And you will leave me in peace until I finish off this tasty morsel!"

With raised eyebrows, the BLU Medic looked at what was apparently the 'tasty morsel'. "That is not a sandwich."

"Sure it is." The BLU Soldier shoved the green, oozing loaf in the BLU Medic's face. "See? It's got lettuce on it."

"Wait a second." The BLU Medic narrowed his eyes at the loaf. "That had better not be what I think it is."

In answer, the half-eaten loaf roared, not unlike what the noise the helmeted madman had made earlier.

The next few seconds happened too fast for neither the BLU Medic or the Soldier to react appropriately.

"Aiyee!" the BLU Medic shrieked.

"GAAAAAH!" The BLU Soldier had not expected his sandwich to come to life, especially not when he had already half-eaten it. And so, when the thing roared, he tossed it at the BLU Medic in a panic.

In short, people screamed, guns (more accurately, one Medi-Gun) fired, and something happened to the loaf.

Later, the BLU Medic would ponder and muse, and decide that in his panic (because most people would panic upon having a mutant loaf flung in their faces), he must have aimed the Medi-Gun at the bread, and the healing rays must have picked up on the BLU Soldier's DNA in the saliva on the bread. Then something mutated with the saliva and the bread, and then the Medi-Gun did something awfully science-y to the loaf. Whatever it was, BLU Medic decided that it was a problem for the BLU Engineer to solve, if the man ever got around to it.

(Which he never did, because the Soldier and the Medic never told anyone.)

The loaf shivered, and grew rapidly in size, into something vaguely human shaped.

"Meine Gott." The BLU Medic muttered, numbly flicking off the Medi-Gun. "What have…"

The Mutant Loaf gave the two occupants one last roar, before throwing itself against the double doors of the infirmary, and running into blue corridors beyond.

"…I done?" the doctor finished, before shaking himself. "Quick! We must go after it!"

The BLU Soldier took a moment to pull himself out of the fridge with a pop, and grabbed his shovel. "Alrighty, doc. Let's go get-"  
>He blinked from behind the helmet, surprised that he was alone in the infirmary, as the BLU Medic had already taken off after the bread mutant.<br>"-my sandwich back…?" Waving his shovel above his head, he followed in the same direction the BLU Medic had gone.

"MY SANDWICH'S ON THE RUN!" he bellowed as he charged down the corridor, muffled groans and swearwords of annoyance answering him from behind the other mercenaries' bedroom doors.

By the time he caught up with the BLU Medic, they were in time to see the Mutant Loaf galumph into RED territory, disappearing around the back of the dusty building.

The two stared in disbelief, one because of the fact that his sandwich ran away _before he could finish it_, and the other because of the fact that he couldn't believe that a bread loaf had just _run away like it was a human_.

Needless to say, the BLU Medic and the BLU Soldier had different priorities.

There was a long silence between the two, broken only the distant complaints of their teammates.

Then, "Ah well. It's their problem now." The BLU Soldier raised his voice. "FAREWELL, LIEUTENANT SANDWICH, YOU WERE A GOOD SANDWICH WHILE YOU LASTED!"

("Oi, shut up, ya maniac!" BLU Scout yelled. "I'm tryin' ta sleep here!")

"Ach," the BLU Medic massaged his temples as he turned back to BLU base, ready for a heavenly brew of coffee, "it's way too early for this."


	2. And So It Begins

_**Meanwhile, on the RED side of the battlefield...**_

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><p><strong>2 And So It Begins<strong>

The RED Sniper was, to put lightly, dumbstruck.

What had started out as a tragedy had quickly turned into a mystery, and then into a light-bulb moment when Miss Pauling told him exactly where he came from, and explained why he didn't fit in.

Like why he didn't grow a moustache.

Or why he never grew Australia shaped chest hair.

Or why he never felt the urge to beat the snot out of his classmates and friends.

He wasn't Australian. Never was, and never would be.

And so, when he was given a week off from the usual mercenary work to take care of his parents' funerals and belongings, something other than tragedy hit him – a healthy dose of mystery deep-fried in suspense (because really, lineage _was_ a big thing). He had spent most of the week questioning the neighbours and demanding answers, but came up with nothing. Either they didn't know, or they were hiding something.

The Sniper suspected that it was the latter.

The Sniper, sadly, was also wrong.

Dejected, the Sniper had reluctantly returned to Teufort, only to find Miss Pauling waiting for him, with answers that he so desperately needed.

("I don't trust you. Why are you telling me this?"  
>"The Administrator's doing this out of the kindness of her heart."<br>"Yeah, right."  
>"…Okay, fine. I'm telling you this so you can focus on your job, Sniper.")<p>

Answers which he had accepted without question, because everything made sense. As in, _everything_.

Like why he never etc. etc. etc.

If RED base had remained to be quiet in the kind of quietness often associated with pre-dawn times, the Sniper might have continued to drift in sleep and ponder on his recent (unwanted) knowledge regarding his lineage. Unfortunately, the tranquillity was shattered with the grace of an elephant on a tightrope.

"MAGGOT! IT IS TIME TO GET UP AND YOU WILL OR BY MY WORD I WILL STICK MY FOOT SO FAR UP YOUR SKINNY LITTLE ASS THAT IT WILL BREAK OFF!"

There was a momentary silence as Sniper woke up fully. Then,

"Piss off, wanker! It's ceasefire day!"

By the time the lanky (not)Australian had gotten to the door to give the madman a piece of his mind, RED Soldier had already moved down the hall, hammering his shovel against the door of the unlucky occupant within, which turned out to be the RED Pyro's.

As a well-known fact, the mumbling firebug was usually a cheerful person, and he – she? it? – was the friendliest, if not unintentionally the creepiest, one out of all the mercenaries. It was always the one that agreed to the wild schemes of any of the mercenaries, be it the Soldier's new Get-Fit-Fast plan, or the Demoman's attempt of exorcising the toilet bowl of evil spirits. Perhaps the Pyro was just a really nice guy trapped inside a rubber suit.

But then the Sniper would see it's flaming victims – usually the BLU Spy – running across the battlefield, screeching in agony, and the marksman would rethink his assessment of the Pyro.

Perhaps the Pyro was just a really nice, _insane_ guy trapped inside a rubber suit.

Normally, the Pyro would respond somewhat enthusiastically to the Soldier's wake-up call, but the night before, the cheery firebug had been decorating the whole base with plastic pumpkins and black paper bats, and was probably up until the wee hours of the morning. As a result, it was in a bad mood.

Oblivious to his impending doom, the Soldier was still bellowing from behind his helmet at the door. Almost ominously, the door creaked open, and the Soldier was met with the nozzle of the flame thrower.

"Mmck mmff." The pyromaniac growled, in no mood for the Soldier's shenanigans.

Wisely, the Sniper decided that his own strife could wait, and besides, the Pyro probably wouldn't leave any bits of the Soldier behind for the Sniper to vent on.

Undaunted, the Soldier continued to yell in the gas-masked face, either unaware or ignoring the danger of being flambéed.

_Perhaps he's stupid._ The Sniper mused, eyeing the drama unfolding in the hallway, which escalated quickly when Soldier combusted, but continued to holler at Pyro. Then, Soldier proceeded to knock on the next door, still screaming at the top of his voice, ignoring his flaming pyjamas.

_Or he's just insane._ The Sniper decided when he caught sight of the fluffy ducklings decorating the pyjamas. With a sigh, the lanky man closed his door and ignored the chaos.

Back in the safety of his bedroom, the Sniper slunk back under the bed sheets and plopped his pillow firmly over his head in an attempt to drown out the drama in the hallway. Then, six seconds later, he had to jerk the pillow off his head and gasp for breath. The Sniper let his head drop back on the pillow with a dull _thunk_, and wondered how had his life come to this – being woken up on a daily basis by a madman wearing cute duckling pyjamas.

Previously mentioned duckling pyjamas wearer had apparently decided to give the Sniper a second round. "WHY ARE YOU NOT UP, MAGGOT?" The Soldier bellowed through the door.

The Sniper's mumbled insults were lost in the downy pillow, but his sentiment was crystal clear:  
>Today was going to be a horrible day.<p>

(And the Soldier was an annoying son of a gun that deserved to drown in his breakfast cereal.)

#TF2#

The RED Spy, barring perhaps the Engineer and the Heavy, was possibly the sanest of the nine mercenaries. That in itself was not much of a complement, nor too much of a comfort.

For one, Soldier and Pyro could be written off as downright lunatics. The Medic? His mental health wasn't the best, what with his inhumane and _uncouth_ experiments. The Scout was an annoying blathering little idiot, and while the Spy had to admit that he wasn't as crazy as the rest of them, he was _annoying_, which, in the Spy's view, was as good as being a lunatic. The Demoman was a paranoid drunkard. (Details weren't even needed for _that_ head case.) The Sniper, like the Scout, wasn't dipping in the insane end of the pool, but whoever peed in jars reserved especially for urine couldn't be completely right in their minds. Perhaps the Sniper _was_ in a sound state of mind, but Spy wasn't about to try and test that theory. As far as the Frenchman was concerned, he was staying as far away from that individual as possible.

Heavy, on the other hand, despite not being able to speak English as well as Soldier would have liked, was an intellectual, and Spy had caught the large man indulging in classics like To Kill A Mockingbird more than once. As for Engineer – well, it was pretty obvious. Someone with an intellect that large couldn't possibly be nuts.

The RED Spy, as a rule, was an early riser, and also the last in the line of the mercenaries' rooms. Thus, he had plenty of warning that one of the previously mentioned lunatics was on his way to raise disorder and incite annoyance.

And so, when the Soldier attempted to bludgeon Spy's door with his shovel and a cry of "GET UP CROUTON!", the Soldier found his shovel hitting empty air and a butterfly knife between his shoulder blades. The Spy, ignoring the half-horrified look sent his way by the Engineer, smothered a yawn delicately, then stepped over the already fading body of the Soldier who was well on his way to Respawn, which even picked up the droplets of blood.

By the time the Spy reached the Mess Hall, the only members missing were the Sniper, the Soldier and the Medic. It was quite clear why the Soldier was missing – there was no doubt that by now, the imbecile was waking up with the mother of all hangovers in the Respawn room. Spy could never be too sure what the Sniper was doing, and the Medic, given his questionable ethics, was probably performing some horrid experiment even as the other mercenaries were having breakfast-

The double doors of the Mess Hall burst open to reveal a harried looking Medic. The Medic's glasses dangled precariously on the bridge of his nose and looked as if it was ready to drop off any second. Blood covered the front of the man's waistcoat, and his usually immaculate hair was pointing in every direction, decorated by a single white feather sticking out of the mess.

_Speak of the devil and he shall come,_ the Spy mused wryly.

"Would anyone," the Medic ground out in his thick accent through gritted teeth, "care to explain why the Soldier is in Respawn already?"

As a collective group, all heads of the seated mercenaries swivelled to the Spy. The Scout helpfully pointed at the balaclava wearing man, and added, "Frenchie did it."

"Non." The Spy answered the Medic's question cheerfully, and hit his cloak button, leaving the Medic to curse loudly in German. He could do without breakfast. But he did need to do one thing…

The Scout yelped when something whacked him upside his head. Swearing, the scrawny mercenary leapt up and swung at the air around him, but the Spy was already gone.

Minutes later found the Spy, still cloaked, wandering the blissfully empty halls of the RED base.

#TF2#

The RED Medic was having a good day. Yes, he was an insomniac, and yes, he was tired, but he was content. The Infirmary was filled with the soothing soft coos of his feathered friends, the base was quiet, and everything was peaceful.

Was.

Unlike the Spy, the Medic's living quarters, the Infirmary, was the first in the line of fire, and was also the first one to have its doors abused by the maniac that particular morning (and really, every other morning too).

"GET UP LAZY SAWBONES!" the yell was accompanied with the customary shovel greeting, and funnily enough, did not send the pure white pigeons of the infirmary into flapping swirls of feathers and panic. They had long since gotten used to the daily unwanted alarm.

However, the Medic did not expect the Soldier to actually kick open the doors, throw his upper body in and demand to know what inhumane experiments the nasty old 'Nazi' was up to now.

Nor did the Medic expect the birds to actually go into a panic at this new pattern of behaviour.

The Infirmary, tranquil just moment ago, was now filled with pigeons freaking out at the Soldier, flying into the Medic's equipment, knocking over the skeleton and sending the fridge to an untimely end by unplugging the power source.

The Medic swore soundly before trying to calm down his birds. By the time the pigeons had stopped trying to brain themselves against the Infirmary walls, the Medic was ready to hunt the Soldier down and send the Hippocratic Oath into the furthest corner of the galaxy until he was finished with the helmeted man. In fact, the irate Medic was on the way to do so, until he caught sight of a certain blood-speckled pigeon bathing in the spare baboon hearts that had spilled out of the fridge.

"Archimedes!" The Medic scooped the little bird out of the gory mess. "No! We do not play in the baboon hearts…"

The pigeon cooed in repentance as he was given a quick wash under a tap.

"…it's filthy!" the Medic finished as he left the Infirmary, not bothering to pull on his lab coat as he left in search of vengeance.

However, when the Medic reached the corridor, he found, to his displeasure, that the Soldier had expired and was almost finished with fading into Respawn. The other mercenaries were nowhere in sight, and it could have been any one of those eight hooligans.

Mood dipping even further, the Medic stomped towards the Mess Hall, and threw open the doors upon his arrival, uncaring that they probably saw him as more of a lunatic now.

It was a typical way to begin the day.

#TF2#

The Sniper was in an identity crisis. The Spy was enjoying himself. The Medic was in a foul mood.

And none of them were aware of the Mutant Bread on the RED side of the battlefield.


	3. Lights Out

_**Wow. I wasn't expecting that much of a reception to this story. Thank you to those who've read/reviewed/followed/anything-else. It means a lot to me.**_

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><p><strong>3 Lights Out<strong>

The Soldier was dead. Gone. Deceased. Kicked the bucket. Ceased to be.

At least, that was what the small, irrational but Monty Python-loving part of the RED Engineer told himself.

During breakfast, the Soldier failed to show up. The mercenaries had sat around the table, taking each bite cautiously, and casting suspicious glances around the room, almost expecting either the Soldier or the Spy to pop up, screaming "BOO!" at the top of his voice, or for the Sniper to come barging in with his Kukri, demanding answers to the mysteries of the universe.

Neither of those events happened, and Engineer was both worried and grateful.

After breakfast, the Soldier was still conspicuously absent, although the Texan did sight the Sniper slinking out of his room, with a look of absolute misery on his face and disappear into the Mess Hall, narrowly missing the Medic stomping off to the Infirmary. The Engineer wasn't even going to try and guess where the Spy went. There was no telling where the lanky Frenchman was at the best of times, and this _wasn't_ one of those 'best of times'.

But to get back to the point at hand – the Soldier was still missing.

"Yo, Hardhat!" The Scout brandished his bat above his head. "Wanna go play baseball with us?"

Engineer's gaze travelled over the previously mentioned 'us'. Scout had somehow managed to wrangle the rest of the team, barring the Support and Soldier, into participating. As amusing as the thought of watching a drunken Demoman attempt to hit a fast moving ball was, Engineer had other problems at hand.

"Nah," the Engineer waved away the offer, "you fellas go right ahead. I need to check on the Respawn System. Soldier may have gotten lost."

"Eh, you're no fun, lad." The Demoman slurred, slinging an arm around the Engineer's shoulders. "You need to get out more."

"Will do, Demo," the Engineer pulled free, "but I gotta check on the Respawn System. Just in case. I'll join you fellas later."

As the rest of the group left, the Engineer waved back at the Pyro, and made his way around to the back of the building, where the Respawn System was.

The Respawn System was not just simply a room. It was a room with an Australium powered console on the outside, where only the ones with the keys (the Engineer, Miss Pauling and the Administrator) could access it by unlocking the fence. The Respawn System was also one of the only things that had survived the explosion with the large bread monster.

But today, when the Engineer unlocked the fence surrounding the console, he had a nagging feeling that someone had already been there. The dirt surrounding the console was imprinted with the soles of what appeared to be Mantreads, along with a few scattered…breadcrumbs?

"Holey dooley." The Engineer muttered, pushing up his helmet to scratch at his shaved head. "Wonder what came through here…"

Shrugging to himself, the Texan went over the usual procedures of checking the console and making sure that there weren't any loose wires. By the time the Engineer returned to play baseball with the rest of the team, his worries weren't alleviated. The console was in perfect condition, which meant that the Soldier should have come through Respawn. But he hadn't, or at least, hadn't decided to go back into the base.

Then where in Sam Hill was the man?

#TF2#

What had turned out to be a sunny day was in fact a Trojan Horse. Or more specifically, a thunderstorm waiting just for the right moment – more like at six in the afternoon – to strike.

_Like that bombshell 'bout my parents._ the RED Sniper stared out at the overcast skies with a gloomy look, and curled his fingers tighter around the coffee mug. With a sigh, the marksman sat down at the dining table, shoulders sagging. He had no idea how long he had been in the kitchen, downing coffee cup after coffee cup in his attempt to drown his sorrows.

Five minutes? Five hours? Who knew?

It was actually none of the above. In his 'drunkenness', twelve hours had elapsed, and the rest of the team had all returned at some point for a few sandwiches during that time, but the Sniper hadn't noticed in his coffee-soaked misery, and the other mercenaries hadn't wanted to disturb him.

Before the Sniper could delve back into the wonderful world of _Who am I really?_ and _What purpose do I have in life if I'm not even Australian?_, his tracker senses kicked in, and he picked up the smell of smoke – not the bushfire type, but the ones that came from expensive imported cigarettes.

"Spy?" Sniper looked around for a floating cigarette. "That you, spook?"

"Oui, Bushman." A floating cigarette answered, and the Spy decloaked with a _fwoosh_. "Are you quite finished with your mood swing?"

"Mood swing?!" The Sniper spat out his mouth of coffee in outrage. "I'll have you know that-"

BOOM.

Windows rattled, lights flickered, and rain poured.

The Sniper's attention was diverted to the rain bucketing down into the usually dry desert, and he found himself pitying any wildlife that had the misfortune to be caught in such a storm.

It suddenly occurred to the Sniper that the base had been empty. "Where'd the others go?"

"Outside," the Spy took a long drag of his cigarette, lips twitching, "doing something imbecilic."

And the Sniper found himself gazing through the window and pitying his teammates who were, without a doubt, soaked through by now. The Spy felt differently. The thought of drenched teammates sent the Frenchman into a barrage of sniggering, and it was only after a few minutes of staring/sniggering that the two realised three very important things.

One, it was raining in a desert.

Two, the Pyro had neglected to plaster the windowsill of this particular window with paper bats.

Three, none of their teammates had showed up yet.

"Hey, Spy."

"What?" The Spy himself was now staring at a plant basking under the torrents of water.

"How come the others aren't back yet?" The Sniper eyed a distant but still visible anthill, swarming with panicking ants.

"Beats me, Bushman." The Spy had now seen the anthill, and wondered how long it took for an ant to drown.

Suddenly, the Sniper wondered if their teammates were acting in the same way the ants were acting – running all over the place, slipping in puddles and being headless chickens in general. It was with this thought in mind that the next tentative question floated out. "Should we… should we check the doors?"

The Spy turned away from the window with a sigh. "…Well, it would be the right thing to do."

As the two members of the Support made their way towards the mechanical double doors of the base, both were prepared for a flood of drenched and grumpy teammates. However, by the time they got to the hangar-like doors, they were in for another surprise.

The door wouldn't open.

"Yo!" the Scout could be heard banging on the door from the other side. "Let us in!"

Sniper slapped a hand against the door button, but the two doors remained stubbornly shut. "It's not working!" he yelled back through the metal.

"…What? Why are you blathering on 'bout twerking?" The Scout wondered if there was something seriously wrong with the Sniper. _Besides the obvious_.

"That's not what I said-" the Sniper was cut off by the Engineer.

"Must've been the lightning!" the Texan bellowed to be heard over the sound of the rain and through the door. "Doors must've been damaged! Don't worry about us!"

"Easy for you to say, laddie." The Demoman tipped his bottle upside down, and watched sadly as nothing came out. "I'm all out."

The Engineer graciously ignored the comment. "We'll hide out somewhere 'till the rain stops!"

"Right, mate!" The Sniper answered, and finally moved away from the door. Then he frowned. "Wait a sec. The only place they can sit 'round in is…"

#TF2#

"_Keep the heck away from my van_!"

The five mercenaries outside the door pretended not to hear the Sniper, and all ran across the courtyard and bundled into the back of the van. As Heavy, the last mercenary, got into the van, the vehicle gave a groan and tilted dangerously before the other four threw themselves in the opposite direction to balance out the van.

When the van didn't tip over, the Engineer let out a sigh of relief, and pulled his goggles off with a sticky squelch.

"Well, nothin' to do but wait the rain out, fellas."

The Scout pulled a face at one of the Sniper's pee jars and shuddered. Reluctantly, he squeezed in next to the Engineer, and tried to ignore the fact that the five of them were all soaking, and squished together in the small van.

#TF2#

"Wankers." The Sniper muttered as he walked away from the door.

The Spy sniggered, but followed. "Well, Bushman, it looks like it's just the two of us."

"Yeah, well," the Sniper shrugged, "I ain't gonna be much com-"

There was the unmistakable _fwoosh_ of a cloaking device.

"-pany." The Sniper said to the empty room. He watched as a floating cigarette hovered down the hallway, leaving the huntsman alone. Suddenly, he was overcome by an insane urge to cry. _No one wants to be my friend!_ He felt like wailing at the unfairness of life, and the nasty curveballs and spitballs that life had a knack of pegging at unsuspecting heads.

A crack of thunder stopped him from doing so, and the not-Australian squeaked in surprise when he thought he heard a breathy voice wheeze out

"_Maggotsssss…_"

Heart thumping, the Sniper reached for the Kukri that wasn't on his belt. _Oh, no._

Something moved in the darkness beyond the light provided by the lightbulb, and the Sniper bit his lip, fighting back the scream. There was another flash of lightning, and the electricity illuminated a hunk of misshapen, vaguely Soldier-like thing. The Sniper only had a split second to see the creature, but the image was imprinted on his mind.

As the Sniper bravely drew his fists, ready for a fight to the finish, another rumble of thunder boomed and then the lights flickered again.

And died.

The room was plunged into darkness, and the Sniper could hear the thing stumbling closer. Throwing dignity to the winds, the Sniper tore down the corridor like a headless chicken, screaming a most high pitched, and decidedly girly, scream.

"Aaaaaaaaaaargh! Spy, where are you?!"


	4. Impossible Decibels

**4 Impossible Decibels By The Human Vocal Cords**

The Medic was enjoying himself.

He was the exact opposite picture of what he had been that morning. After cleaning up the Infirmary properly, the German had played a cassette of classical violin solos on his tape recorder, and buried himself behind a medical journal, eager to forget about the morning's events.

And he did, at least, until the blackout. Without warning – he ignored the storm - the Infirmary was plunged into darkness, and the pigeons made unsettled coos.

"There, there," he comforted the birds as he searched his desk drawers for a flashlight, "it's nothing to worry about. Just a little blackout-"

"_Aaaaaaaaargh! Spy, where are you?!_"

The Medic jerked at the sound, knocking his head against the bottom of the desk even as his hands closed around the flashlight. A round of swearwords floated from underneath the desk, and Archimedes flew on top of the table, head tilted to one side, and trying to see what had caused the Medic such pain.

"Herr Sniper is," the Medic told Archimedes upon re-emerging from below the desk, "a total schweinhund. Feel free to tell him that."

Archimedes cooed dutifully in agreement.

Rubbing the top of his head ruefully, the Medic clicked on the flashlight, and opened the Infirmary doors before striding purposefully in the direction the scream had come from, ready to give the hysterical Sniper a piece of his mind or a tranquilizer, whichever seemed more appealing.

#TF2#

"_Aaaaaaaaargh! Spy, where are you?!_"

The Spy, given that he was cloaked and no one was around to see him do so, indulged in an eye-roll. "Imbecile." He muttered. "What could he be up to now?"

The Universe had a bad habit of not giving people the answers they wanted to know. The Sniper was one such example. When he had been hit in the back of the head by a viciously thrown spitball from Life, he had asked the Universe for much needed answers, only to receive them from Miss Pauling some one hundred and sixty-eight hours later. If it was possible for the Sniper to send a message to the Universe, it would have been along the lines of "Gee, thanks a lot, you wanker. _Now_ you tell me. Would've been nice a week ago."

It was a different story for the Spy. When he had wondered aloud what on earth the Sniper was up to, he hadn't expected an answer from the Universe, seeing as it wasn't even one of those _Why me, Universe?_ questions. But, given the Spy's charming personality, the Universe must have taken a liking to the Spy, and decided to give the Spy his answer, in the form of a sixty-five kilogramed lanky not-Australian running into him from behind.

Both mercenaries tumbled to the floor, with the Sniper squishing the smaller man into the ground.

"Spy?!" The Sniper shrieked in hysterical relief as he jumped up, grabbing the now decloaked Frenchman by the lapels and shaking him, babbling at a three hundred kilometres per millisecond. "There's something horrible in the entrance and I think it's Soldier oh my goodness why is he a monster and he wasn't playing baseball was he no he wasn't oh my goodness what's wrong with him-"

"Calm down, Bushman!" The Spy snapped, giving the Sniper a well-deserved slap. "And LET ME GO!"

The Sniper's hands obeyed, and the Spy was dropped like a sack of potatoes.

"…Ow." The Frenchman picked himself up with as much dignity as he could manage, although his butt cried out in protest. It was not fun, being dropped violently and then being forced to hold the body upright while looking dignified. "Now tell me what the f*ck you were on about. And in standard English, not bogan Australian."

The Sniper could safely boast to be a calm, cool-like-ice cucumber. After all, it took great patience in sitting still for hours at a time just for a head to pop up and shoot at. However, everyone had their limits. Everyone had their breaking point. When some reached their breaking point, they turned into hulking green monsters of rage and smashed everything delicate and breakable in sight. Others cried with grief and indulged in fattening foods which ironically improved their mental health while destroying their physical health.

When the Sniper lost it, he fell into the latter category.

"I'm not even _Australian_!" the man wailed, his emotions finally bursting past his stoic exterior in the form of sniffles of pure self-loathing.

"Mon dieu." The Spy buried his face in his hands. _Why me?_

Something rustled in the darkness behind the Sniper, and the marksman cowered behind the masked man, misery evaporating and fear condensing in its place.

"It's coming for us!" the Sniper pointed dramatically at the darkness.

"What is?" the Spy demanded, trying to shake off the clingy not-Australian. Unable to see into the darkness, the masked man squinted like he desperately needed glasses.

"_Maggotssssss._" Something hissed in the darkness.

The Spy's blood ran cold.

In his rather colourful line of work, he had seen many things, and most were which others regarded to be impossible. When he had joined Reliable Excavations and Demolitions, his definition of 'impossible' had been put through a blender, boiled in a microwave, simmered in acid and was melted down in a volcano before being formed into a new meaning completely.

That being said, the RED Spy was no fool – he knew that the Soldier hadn't showed up after his trip to Respawn, and at the time, he had brushed it off as the Soldier being his usual wacky self again. But owing to his new definition of 'impossible', he knew better than to assume that the Soldier had decided to play hide-and-seek with his imaginary friends.

Hands steady and face grim, the Spy reached into his jacket…

"Yes," the Sniper egged him on, "use the butterfly knife!"

…and pulled out his lighter.

"What?!" the Sniper shrieked. "What are you going to do, burn it to death?!" Common sense would have told the Sniper that a gun might have done more damage, if it hadn't fled with his sanity two minutes ago.

The Spy's common sense, on the other hand, was still intact, and was currently shrieking at him to steal the Heavy's gun (_f*ck the consequences!_) and blow whatever was in the shadows into smithereens. Instead, the Spy lit up a cigarette.

Several, in fact.

The Spy was a mysterious man. Not much was known about him, other than the fact that he was a womanizer and a backstabber. No one knew that he was a chain-smoker when he was nervous, although given his rate of smoking, it was more accurate to say that his 'chain' was more of a multi-linked monstrosity of metal rings.

The Sniper wasn't sure which sight was more terrifying – the grotesque tumour-covered Soldier stumbling into their view, or the Spy's mouth filled with countless cigarettes.

Either way, the Sniper must have found at least one of them to be terrifying, for in the next second, he was fleeing down the hallway, dragging the Spy along while he broke the record held by the Tunguska Meteor.

The Spy was pretty sure that his teammate reached 316 decibels. And that was just by screaming.

#TF2#

The BLU Medic started. He looked out the window, through the rain, and across at the RED base. Then he shrugged. He probably imagined that scream.

#TF2#

The RED Medic winced at the ringing in his ears. "What was that?" he muttered, and quickened his pace. When he rounded the corridor, he was in time to see the other two Support mercenaries dash into the Mess Hall.

"Idiots." The Medic muttered under his breath and made his way to the Mess Hall doors. "What are you two doing?" he demanded archly as he threw the doors open.

The Sniper and the Spy, both armed with frying pans, came very close to murdering the Medic that day. As such, the frying pan whistled through the air, the flashlight was dropped to the floor, and the Medic was only saved by his reflexes and what remained of the Sniper's common sense.

"No, Spy! Stop!" The Sniper grabbed the Spy's arm and prevented him from swinging again. "It's the Medic."

The Medic lowered his arms from his head, and glared at the two as soon as he retrieved the flashlight. "What are you two doing?"

"Eh…" the Sniper suddenly felt like a young child as the Medic folded his arms and tapped his foot impatiently, "we're hiding."

"From what?" the doctor's eyebrow raised slowly, and for a moment, the Medic regretted asking the question at all. Sometimes, the Medic would realise wryly upon hindsight, ignorance _was _bliss.

_Creeeeaaaaak._ The door opened again, and something wearing a helmet stepped in.

The Medic sighed as he saw the bug-eyed looks the Spy and Sniper were giving to whatever was behind him. "It's right behind me, isn't it?"

#TF2#

Five mercenaries was an impressive crowd, especially if one took into account of the fact that one was the equivalent size of a grizzly bear, and if all of them were crammed into a van designed for the living purposes of only one, not bear-sized, man. As such, the Engineer found himself shoulder to shoulder with the Scout and the Heavy, and feeling an alarming amount of sympathy for canned sardines.

Given that the five were soaked in rain, sweat and their own juices, the Engineer was probably subconsciously comparing themselves to sardines in brine. It was an unsettling thought, and the Texan blamed the stuffy atmosphere of the van for his peculiar thoughts.

"Hudda hur?" The Pyro suddenly perked up, head tilted to one side and peeking out from the other side of the Heavy's torso.

"Nah," the Engineer gently pushed the Heavy's elbow out of his face as he spoke, "it must've been your imagination."

"What did Mumbles say?" The Scout questioned, somehow managing to draw enough air to ask the question.

"He said he heard screaming." The Engineer answered, ducking his head and narrowly avoiding taking an elbow to the face from the oblivious Heavy.

"Aye." The Demoman whispered. "I heard it."

The Scout peered over the Engineer and the Heavy to look at the Scotsman, only jerk back in alarm. "Yo, what's up with him?"

The Demoman was staring blankly into the side of the van, the bottle of Scrumpy hanging limply between his fingers. His single eye, usually wild with drunkenness and paranoia, was… well, _normal_.

"Little man is sober." The Heavy answered, and the Pyro made a noise that suspiciously resembled laughter.

"Oh, man," the Scout pulled his cap over his face, "I hope the doors start working soon."

"I hope so too, son." The Engineer agreed. There was no telling what the other three were doing to the base by now.

And he really needed to pee.

#TF2#

The Mess Hall was quite literally a mess now. The table had been overturned, and the chairs were strewn across the room, and the coffee pot shards filled one corner, with a puddle of brown liquid framing the glass.

Two of the mercenaries rushed at the figure in the doorway with their frypans while the last one brandished the flashlight and shone it in the spot where the figure's eyes should have been.

Instead, they were hidden behind a very familiar helmet, and the Support classes were greeted with a very familiar voice that they usually would have found unwelcome, but was now the sweetest music in the world.

"WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS TREASON, YOU SPINELESS MAGGOTS?!" The RED Soldier screeched as the frypans bounced harmlessly off the helmet. The attempt to blind him didn't have any effect at all.

There was a stunned silence. Then, voices overlapped each other in their quest for answers.

"WHY DID YOU OLD LADIES ATTACK ME?"  
>"S-Soldier? That really you?"<br>*"C'est des conneries!"  
>"Why do I even bother..."<p>

One voice, however, stood out the most, and sent all the hairs of the brave, murdering mercenaries standing on end.

"_Maggotssss._"

"…oh, f*ck." The Spy spoke for all of them.

* * *

><p>* "C'est des conneries!" translates to "This is bullsh*t!" – not sure if the French is accurate, though. Feel free to point out any errors.<p> 


	5. Bready Go Home

**5 Bready Go Home**

The mercenaries of Teufort were not known for their tact. In fact, the best plan that they could come up with on short notice was usually to repeatedly shoot whatever had caused mass hysteria in the first place until it stopped causing mass hysteria or stopped moving – whichever one happened first.

Unfortunately for the four trapped within the base, they were armed only with their wits and their fists, to which the Spy came up with one definite conclusion; "We're f*cked."

Of course, this he only noted to himself and one of the pigeons in the Medic's Infirmary, and none of the other three, as he knew that if he told them his assessment, there would no doubt be mass hysteria, and he had an inkling that the Soldier would then try to beat _him_ into a pulp, or until he stopped causing mass hysteria.

"We need a method of attack, men." The Soldier stabbed a meaty finger into a badly drawn diagram, depicting four stick figures and a lumpy scribble with 'Evil Me' labelled above it. "How's the barricade coming along?"

The Sniper pushed the fridge in front of the pile blocking the Infirmary doors, and dusted off his hands. "All done."

"Good work, Private Down-Under." The Soldier praised, and the not-Australian's bottom lip trembled at the reference to what was no longer his country of origin. "Now, does anyone have any weapons?"

A chorus of "No."s answered him, along with a sniffle from the Sniper.

"No matter, then," the Soldier declared, throwing aside his diagram and sending the easel behind it flying across the room and unsettling a few pigeons, "I'll just outwit the thing!"

"Oui." The Spy answered dryly, lighting up the one hundred and twelfth cigarette of the hour. "I'm sure _that_ will work."

While the Soldier reached underneath his helmet and scratched his head, pondering exactly what the Frenchman meant, something threw itself against the outside of the Infirmary doors with the force of a large pig.

"_Maggotssss!_" the thing hissed ferociously from the other side, furious that it could not get through. "_Come out here and face me, if you are a man!_"

"Why you little-" the Soldier started, ready to single-handedly destroy the barricade and go wrestling with the mutant outside.

"Soldier, don't do it!" The Medic and the Sniper held him back. "You won't stand a chance against that thing!"

"IT IS OF NO MATTER!" The Soldier struggled valiantly. "IF I DO NOT COME BACK IN FIVE MINUTES, THEN IT MEANS THAT I HAVE DIED A MOST HONOURABLE DEATH FACING OFF THE BREAD MONSTER FROM THE DARKNESS OF THE BLU BASE-"

"Wait," the Spy perked up at this information, "_bread_ monster? BLU Base?"

The Soldier stopped struggling for a second. "Yes, I tracked that fiend back to those hippies across the battlefield from us. Took me all day to do it."

"How did you do it?" The Medic asked warily, almost fearing the answer, his morbid imagination coming up with reasons ranging from following a trail of breadcrumbs to conversing with the bread monster.

"That was easy." The Soldier grinned proudly. "I was up this morning when those two BLU sissies released it into our territory. Those two demons were laughing the whole time they did it."

The Sniper gave him a sceptical look.

"What? Don't believe me, Down Under?" The Soldier pointed two of his fingers at his eyes, although he ended up pointing at the helmet's outside. "I saw it with my own two eyes, you wussies."

_What eyes?_ The Medic rolled his own _visible_ eyes. Something told him that he couldn't trust all of the Soldier's account. "That still doesn't help us with our current predicament."

"Actually, it does." The Spy noted. "It's a bread monster. It's not immortal." A smirk resembling his customary smug smirk appeared on his face as he lit yet another cigarette. "Gentlemen," he took a long drag, savouring the flavour, "we may have a chance after all."

#TF2#

Outside the Infirmary, the Mutant Bread Soldier prowled up and down the corridor, stopping every so often to wheeze out the catchphrase regarding the offspring of flies, before resuming his pacing. Little went on in his brain – other than the occasional "Hey, I wonder what the humans are doing behind that closed door because it really is quite suspicious how quiet they are."

Most of the time, it was just "Must. Eat." Of course, humans didn't have to be the eaten object – it just so happened that this particular loaf was unhappy with the fact that the BLU Soldier, a human, had tried to eat it. It was still quite touchy about the subject, and wanted revenge.

Hence why it was currently hunting down the humans hiding out in the Infirmary.

The Mutant Bread Soldier wasn't too different from his human counterpart. They were both big, hulking American-made creations. They both liked helmets. And they were both quite unintelligent. They both relied on brute force to get a job done, and liked getting it done using brute force.

Oh, and nothing went on in either of their brains.

_Must. Eat._

#TF2#

"YOU SPINELESS CROUTON!" the Soldier spat in the Spy's face. "THAT IS A SISSY'S PLAN AND IT WILL NOT WORK! I SHALL SLAY THE MONSTER MYSELF!"

Without warning, the Soldier took up his shovel, and ran towards the Infirmary windows.

"No!" the Medic shouted. "Soldier, don't do-"

CRASH.

"-it."

There was now a Soldier-shaped hole in the glass.

"Dummkopf!" The Medic snarled. "Doesn't he know how long it took for the repairs to come last time?"

"Oh, come on!" The Sniper started tearing down the barricade. "We need to help the idiot before he kills himself!"

"Non, Bushman! Don't do it! The Soldier has no way of getting in!"

But it was too late. The barricade – in reality, it was just the fridge and the Medic's desk – was torn down, and ignoring the Medic's cry of "No, not my desk!", the Sniper threw himself into the hallway, armed with nothing but his bare hands and considerably small wits.

Instead of finding the Mutant Bread Soldier mauling the human idiot Soldier, he found only the Mutant Bread Soldier. The human idiot Soldier was nowhere in sight. The Mutant Bread Soldier looked at the Sniper the same way a shark may regard a tiny fish.

"Aw, piss." The mutter was followed with, "Heck with it." And then the Sniper threw himself forwards, with a war cry of

"COWABUUUNNNNGA!"

Perhaps the War Cry was really scary. Or perhaps the Mutant Bread Soldier had not expected the human to be stupid enough to try such a thing, and was stunned long enough for the Sniper to rugby tackle it.

The Spy and the Medic stood in stunned silence, watching the Sniper wrestle with the Mutant Bread Soldier, both wondering if the Sniper was attempting to look like an Australian wrestling a crocodile, or if the look just came naturally. Numbly, the Spy fished out his phone, and started filming. The Medic looked curiously at him.

"What?" the Frenchman demanded. "Do you have a better idea?"

"Well…no." The Medic admitted.

A beat passed, punctuated by the Sniper yelling, "I could use a hand here!"

"Should we be helping?" The Spy asked reluctantly.

"Hm. Perhaps."

The Spy put away his phone. "Fine."

The rest of the Support dove into the fray, and even as they did so, the Soldier ran around the corner, covered in cuts and rain water.

"MAGGOTS! I HAVE ARRIVED…oh… AND SINCE YOU ARE ALL WRESTLING, I WILL TOO!"

With that declaration, another mercenary joined the pile, and the Mutant Bread Soldier let out a whimper as it was squished under the weight of four reasonably healthy but fully grown men.

"Soldier?" the Spy's eyes widened in surprise, even as he helped the others pin the Mutant Bread Monster down. "How did you get in?"

"Through the back door like a normal person, you crouton!"

Normally, the Spy would have rolled his eyes at the 'normal' part, but he was too busy face-palming to do so. Out of all the intellectuals in the team, it was the most insane of the all who figured out that such thing as a back door existed, and was, in fact, not automatic.

It was a normal door, the type with a knob and swung backwards and forwards on hinges, usually accompanied with the squeak of un-oiled hinges. It was not powered by anything remotely electric, and even as the Spy realised that the door was perfectly functional the whole time, and the rest of the team could have easily came back into the base, it dawned on him that if – when – the rest of the team found out, they would be, in the Sniper's words, _very pissed off, indeed_.

#TF2#

The Engineer couldn't hold it any longer. He had been sitting (cramped) in the Sniper's van for a good five hours, and he had lost feeling in his legs. Unfortunately, the numbness hadn't spread up through the lower half of his body, so he was very much aware of the pressing need of his bladder.

"I need to go." He declared suddenly, standing up and dislodging the Scout from the side of the van.

"Go?" The Heavy looked curiously at the Engineer. "Go where?"

"You know," the Engineer answered, feeling his face heat up even as he grabbed one of the Sniper's empty jars, "_go._"

"Oh." Realisation dawned on the Heavy's face, and something akin to amusement lit up in his eyes.

Scowling, the Engineer stepped over the sprawled mercenaries' legs and jumped out the back of the van and into the still pouring rain. Ruefully, he noted that the doors were still sealed shut, which meant that he had to suffer the indignity of going in a jar, just like the Sniper did on a daily basis.

The thought made him shudder. But he really needed to _go_, and desperate times called for desperate measures. Before he could do anything of the sort, four figures carrying something resembling a log between them suddenly stumbled from around the back of the building, slipping dangerously in the mud.

The Engineer watched, jaw dropped, as the Support and the missing Soldier – who obviously wasn't missing any longer – carried what appeared to be a struggling loaf of bread between them.

The group stopped, and stared at the Engineer, who suddenly felt very much like a deer which was caught in the headlights of four crazy drivers. Almost as a group, the four's gazes trailed down to the conspicuous jar in his hand.

The Engineer stared back, then glanced at the jar in his hand. "This ain't what it looks like." He said finally, in despair.

Without missing a beat, the Sniper answered for them. "Whatever you say, Tex." His tone, however, spoke a different story all together.

_Pfft, yeah right. We all know you were going to piss in that jar and don't you dare deny it._

"Well, we must be on our way." The Medic spoke up from the end of the group. With that, the odd group shuffled off again, disappearing into the rain and in the general direction of the BLU building. The Engineer was left gaping at the spot where they had disappeared.

Then, he shook his head, did his business in the jar, and went back inside the van, all the time wondering why the quartet were heading over to the BLU building, and at the middle of the night too.

It never occurred to him to wonder how the other four had managed to get out of the RED building.

#TF2#

No one knew much about the BLU Spy, but they did know one thing - the BLU Spy was renowned for his sharp ears. He had an uncanny ability to hear even the softest of noises over the loudest of clamours.

Knuckles rapping across the door counted as a soft noise while rolling thunder fell under the category of 'loudest of clamours'. And so, he found himself opening the door to find his RED counterpart standing out in front of their building, and becoming quite soaked in the rain.

"Bonne nuit." The RED greeted in all seriousness, face completely straight.

Eyebrows furrowed suspiciously, the BLU folded his arms. "What do you want?"

The RED Spy shrugged, attempting to light up his cigarette and failing as the downpour extinguished his every attempt. "Do I need a reason to visit?"

Taking pity on the other masked man, the BLU Spy flicked his own lighter and lit up the cigarette.

"Ah, merci." The RED Spy nodded, taking in a grateful drag of the nicotine.

"Like I said before," the BLU Spy put his lighter away, "what do you want?"

"Do you know what tonight is?" the RED asked conversationally, still speaking in a dead serious tone.

"Friday." The BLU Spy deadpanned. "Did you really come all the way here just to ask me what day of the week it was?"

"Non, you misunderstand," the RED Spy flicked his cigarette away, and ground it under his foot, "I meant the date."

"The thirty-first?"

"Oui."

"Fascinating." The BLU Spy wondered if the RED Spy had not merely lost his marbles, but deliberately threw them to the ground and smashed every last one with a hammer, until nothing but powdered glass remained. "So?"

Suddenly, the RED Spy's face was split with a wide grin. "Happy Halloween."

And the BLU Spy knew that the RED Spy's marbles, in addition to being powdered, had been sautéed by the Pyro and re-shaped into a mass of twisted glass.

"You are insane." He replied blithely.

"Perhaps," the grin was still on the RED Spy's face, "but the main question is…"

Quirking an eyebrow, the BLU Spy mused that he didn't really want to know what the question was.

"…Trick, or Treat?"

There was a pause. Then, the BLU Spy rubbed his temples. "What the f*ck are you on?"

"I'll take that as Trick, then." The RED Spy sighed sorrowfully at the lack of candy. "Au revoir, imbecile."

Before the BLU Spy could do anything more than splutter in outrage, the RED Spy cloaked with a familiar _fwoosh_ and disappeared from sight.

Shaking his head, the BLU Spy closed the door and found himself to be worried for his RED counterpart's sanity.

#TF2#

"Well, crouton?" the RED Soldier demanded. "What did he say?"

"He refused," the RED Spy answered dryly, "to give you candy."

"That's it!" the RED Soldier howled. "We're returning Lieutenant Sandwich to those BLU bastards!"

Behind him, the Medic and the Sniper looked up from their task of holding the Mutant Bread Soldier down and voiced their agreement in cheers.

#TF2#

_Scritch. Scritch._

The BLU Medic sat up with a groan, cursing his sleeping habits of falling asleep at his desk. One hand inched towards his Syringe Gun while the other rubbed at the new crick in his neck. "Not again." The Medic sighed upon realising the noise had come from the fridge.

Again.

This time, instead of approaching it cautiously, the Medic stormed up to his fridge and kicked it onto its side, the door banging open as he did so.

"WATCH IT, MAGGOT!" the BLU Soldier was once again in the confines of the fridge, and was still stuck, by the way he didn't sprawl onto the Infirmary floor. "I AM TRYING TO EAT HERE!"

The BLU Medic rolled his eyes, and immediately shot a tranquiliser into the helmeted man, who stared at the syringe, then at the Medic. "WHY YOU-" he broke off mid yell as the tranquiliser kicked in, and he slumped forwards, unconscious.

Or so the Medic thought.

"_Maggotssss._"

The bespectacled man jumped at the hissed voice, and looked at the Soldier, who was still out cold and starting to drool, the spittle gathering in a small sticky puddle on the once-pristine Infirmary floor.

_Not him, then._ The Medic looked at the Infirmary doors, and his heart leapt into his throat when he caught sight of a most familiar lumpy, Soldier shaped and tumour-filled loaf.

Having two shocks in two days, and both in the early morning was too much for the poor BLU Medic, and his dignity and sanity was thrown out the proverbial window like a pancake flopping out of a frypan.

"Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeyaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!"

#TF2#

The BLU Team didn't take it too kindly to being woken up twice in two days at an ungodly hour by loud noises by the insane members of their team, and so, when they heard their Medic shriek bloody murder, six pyjama clad mercenaries stumbled to the Infirmary, rubbing the sleep out of their eyes, demanding to know what the Dickens was going on.

Of course, they then all saw the Mutant Bread Soldier, and they, like the Medic, panicked.

The BLU Spy was the only one who hadn't joined the pandemonium. Instead, he poked his head out of his bedroom door, took one look at the impromptu brawl, and decided that he would be better off not engaging in a pre-dawn fistfight.

* * *

><p><span><em><strong>Author's notes: Almost done, just an epilogue to come. I hope everyone has enjoyed it so far.<strong>_


	6. A Fight

**Epilogue**: **A Fight Is What Makes an Australian an Australian**

"I…wow. Just wow." The RED Sniper muttered, looking over the footage of his wrestling match with the Mutant Bread Soldier.

The camera work was shaky at best, but there was no mistaking the determination on the RED Sniper's face as he attempted to pin the Mutant Bread Soldier while trying to not get his arm bitten off. There was no mistaking the undoubtedly _Australian_ image projected by the man wrestling not quite a crocodile, but a monster in its own right. There was no mistaking it.

"Oui." The RED Spy agreed with a smirk, putting his phone away. "You see, Mun-Dee, I believe what makes one an Australian is not his blood…"

The RED Sniper beamed.

"…it is the lack of brains that makes an Australian truly an Australian." The RED Spy finished, effectively ruining the potentially 'bromantic' atmosphere.

"Why, you bloody backstabbing-" the Sniper leapt to his feet, his fists clenched and ready for action, before dropping. "Say, can you smell that?"

"Smell what?" the Spy sniffed the air experimentally. "Do you mean that fish-like smell?"

"Yeah…" the Sniper sniffed again. "Kinda like sardines."

The Mess Hall door banged open, and in stormed the Engineer, Heavy, Pyro, Scout and Demoman. Although the Demoman was supported between the Pyro and the Scout, as he was too drunk to stand on his own two feet.

"Y'all have," the Engineer hissed, "helluva lot of explaining to do."

"Like?" the Sniper stood up slowly, backing slowly towards the doors, right in the Spy's footsteps.

"Like how no one mentioned that the back door worked." The small, but dangerously irate Texan took one menacing step, then another, towards the two members of the Support.

The Spy and the Sniper turned to flee, but ran straight into the unfortunate Medic, whose greeting was cut short rather painfully. "Good morning- ack!"

As the three scrambled back to their feet, the Soldier waltzed into the Mess Hall, covered in blood. Naturally, this caused all occupants of the Mess Hall to stop and stare.

"Soldier…" the Sniper asked finally, "…where's your helmet?"

Indeed, the Soldier's helmet was missing from its usual place of honour – atop the maniac's head – and was nowhere to be seen. But the Spy, who had been more interested to learn where the blood had come from, merely wacked the Sniper upside his head for the stupid question.

As a resounding _Thwack!_ echoed painfully in the room, the Soldier took the opportunity to explain why he was covered in blood.

He opened his mouth, and drew in as much air as he possibly could. "Well, you see, I paid a visit to my old roommate Merasmus last night after our fight with Lieutenant Sandwich, and I found some weird demon thingy that I locked up in his fridge, and then I invited all my friends, including Lieutenant Bites and then we had a party with all the sour-cream from the grocery store and then Merasmus came back and the wussy was all like "Get out of my castle!" and I was all like "No, it's a raccoon sanctuary now!" and then he just blabbed on and on-"

The Soldier's voice was dangerously soft at this point, as he was nearly out of breath, and if he had looked in a mirror, he may have declared himself a traitor, for his face was almost completely blue.

But the Soldier, being a mostly insane patriot, ignored the needs of his lungs, and continued on, oblivious to the fact that he was probably killing off what little remained of his brain cells with the lack of oxygen. "-and then I burned his body, and now he's an angry ghost and he was all like "I will kill you!", but I had eaten all of his 'Kill Me Come Back Stronger' Pills…"

As a group, the other mercenaries leaned closer to try and make sense out of the Soldier's strangled whispering.

"…and he was like "Then I'll kill everyone you care about!" and I said "Hah! I'd like to see you try!" and that is why he is going to kill all of us very soon – OH, AND WE'RE IN HERE, MERASMUS YOU MAGGOT! COME AND GET ME!" The Soldier had miraculously regained his voice, and all the other mercenaries fell back in surprise, ruefully rubbing their ringing ears.

At that, the roof of the Mess Hall was promptly ripped off by green, glowing magic, and the nine mercenaries stared up at the ghostly wizard. Even as Merasmus struck out at the closest mercenaries to him, the Support tore down the hallway, towards the locker room where their weapons were stored.

But they were not worried.

They had taken down a Mutant Bread version of the Soldier. They had survived a night of hysteria. They had managed to prank the BLUs with their own creation. They had broken the record held by the Tunguska Meteor – although that was really just the Sniper – and they had worked together as a team.

They could handle one old cross-dressing geezer.

END


End file.
